Fish in a Barrel
by Kievan09
Summary: You do something long enough, it becomes a routine. Graves devoted his life to the League for a chance to kill Twisted Fate, but two years and probably about half a thousand successes later, he finds himself at a loss. What do you do when you manage to meet your ultimate goal every other day? Graves/Twisted Fate, MxM, written for the LoL /y/ thread, expect lemon/NSFW/slash/whatevs
1. Chapter 1

The first time he'd put the barrel of his gun flat to Twisted Fate's chest and watched the shotgun shells explode out the thinner man's back, Graves was too busy trying to deal with the rest of the team he'd just dove through to relish in his victory. Fate was back forty seconds later, anyway, the ever-present cocky grin unfazed by the fact that, less than a minute earlier, he was lying face-down on the ground with a fist-sized hole in each lung.

The second time, Twisted Fate came to him - Graves had been pushing the bottom lane by himself while the rest of the team held the line at the middle turret. He and his summoner had a bit of a philosophical disagreement here - Graves wanted to be where the fight was, yearned and thirsted for payback that couldn't be sated by destroying a turret. His summoner was the one in control though, begrudging as Graves was. He'd given up most of his free will on the battlefield for the chance to wrap his knuckles around Twisted Fate's skinny neck, an opportunity that, judging by the appearance of the eye above his head, might come sooner than expected.

Graves backed up into the brush, looking around for the telltale circle of cards that would herald Twisted Fate's entrance. He cocked the gun, tension rising in his stomach, and as soon as the circle appeared he dashed forward, and the explosive round, followed right after the buckshot, slammed straight into Twisted Fate's chest as soon as he'd gated in. Fate dropped again like a sack of potatoes, the card behind his back losing its golden shine as he planted face-first into his own blood. Graves wanted to gloat, but the rest of his team was calling warnings to him - seconds later, a frozen arrow hit him straight in the back and then, as he saw Warwick and Kassadin leap out of the jungle, he too was suspended in some grey unlife, waiting for the Nexus's magic to resuscitate him.

That first match against one another had been almost two years ago - Graves had been keeping track. He wondered, struggling to recount how many times he and Twisted Fate had faced each other on the Fields of Justice now, at what point did he consider his vengeance sated? But then the next question, of course, what would he do if he ever decided he'd reached that point? For nearly the whole two years he'd been in the League, and the time in Prigg's prison before that, all he chased was killing Twisted Fate. But he'd managed to do that probably half a thousand times now, and maybe he was just getting too old for this, but there wasn't any rush in blowing holes through Fate's chest any more.

Not that Fate was a slouch, either. In the hands of the right summoner that magic really shined: Fate would step out from his mid tower into a killing spree at bot. Graves would be seeing gold even after his body pulled itself back together at base. He'd feel the burn of enchanted cardboard against his neck for the whole day afterwards. Smell the tang of experimental Noxian magic wherever he turned.

Graves had always been a more careful conman than Twisted Fate; then again, he was a sorer loser. Fate lived for the thrill of the gamble - cheating only raised the stakes. Graves was the one who ever really cared about their spoils.

He should have figured, then, that Fate would eventually come to him outside of the League. Nearly two years and they still hadn't really met away from the Nexus's healing powers. Graves might catch the flicker of a cloak in a crowded bar, but before he could grab Destiny and chase after that lead, the crowd would shift and his target would vanish.

And now here was Twisted Fate, strolling up to him in the middle of the bar with that same arrogant swagger of his hips as always. The bar inside was fuller than normal; people had moved from the patio to the inside since it had started raining. There was no way Graves could react without someone else noticing, and that was how Fate wanted it. Even after becoming one of the most popular champions in the League, he was still starved for attention. Some things never changed.

"Malcolm," Twisted Fate said, leaning against the counter with a tip of his hat.

For a second, Graves imagined pressing his gun to Fate's chest, images of the first time he'd killed the man flashing across his vision. He sneered and, looking his former partner in the face, decided that maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all. He cracked his shotgun open, holding it with his left hand as his right fished in the pouch on his belt for a couple of bullets.

"Charmin' as ever," Twisted Fate continued, as Graves shifted to thumb the bullets into the barrel.

"Backstabbing sonuvabitch," Graves muttered, cocking the shotgun. The sound seemed to really draw the attention - and panic - of the surrounding crowd. This small bar near the Institute was popular with League Champions, so seeing them wasn't rare. Two of them fighting away from the Fields of Justice - that was a bit more exciting.

"Sure am, Malcolm," Twisted Fate said. There was a drawling patience in his voice, almost a dare. Fate's reputation within the League was nearly untouchable - Graves could sit here and shout honest insults til dusk, but that wouldn't dethrone him.

"Ain't got nothin' for you, Fate."

"Relax. I had enough fightin' for one day. Just grabbing a drink, and you looked lonely."

The words were an echo in Graves's mind. Years and years ago, Graves had stumbled into a bar to get out of the rain. He'd been nursing a Highball, eying the room for potential suckers to con, when Twisted Fate had sauntered up and introduced himself with almost that exact same sentence. Next up was -

"Up for a game of cards?"

Graves snorted and pointed Destiny square at Fate's chest. Someone yelled to alert the League Council, but nobody else in the room moved. Fate was still grinning as he soaked up the spotlight. Outside, the rain began to pour, thrumming heavily on the roof of the bar.

"This is the only answer I got for you," Graves said, grip tightening.

Fate tilted his head, eyes flashing an amused gold. He reached up, fingers tracing the gun's gilded muzzle, dancing along the rim.

Frowning, Graves watched the display, though he remained poised to shoot. Twisted Fate's thin fingers tapped a rhythm along the barrel of the gun. Once, he dipped the tips of his middle and ring finger into the left barrel, then quickly withdrew them, rubbing the gunpowder against his thumb. He put two digits under the gun and tilted it upwards, slowly, until it aimed at his Adam's apple. His eyes were a molten red now, smoldering. Graves would lie about it in a heartbeat, but it was making him hard.

Twisted Fate had always been a maestro at misdirection - a skill that, Fate had once confided in him as they counted their winnings in a dingy inn room above a bar, was essential for any street magician to succeed. Graves had been palming Aces for years, but when Fate did it it was just the world stacked against you, and there was nothing you could do about it. He could switch cards with both hands tied behind his back and someone else playing for him. Graves would watch him for the subtle tells and still never figure out how he could do it.

Point was, those eyes weren't a tell. They were exactly what Fate wanted him to see, and Graves had known him long enough to know not to fall for it.

"If you're gonna shoot me, make it fast."

Graves snorted and lowered Destiny, cracking her open again. Instead of bullets, a string of colored handkerchiefs poked out. He pulled them from the barrel, dropping them on the floor with little ceremony.

Some of the patrons made surprised noises. Somebody in the back tried to start an applause, but that died when nobody else joined in. Fate smiled in their general direction regardless, eyes an earnest, bright blue. Graves didn't bother reaching into the pouch on his belt - they wouldn't be there, though he couldn't pinpoint when they would've gone missing.

Before he could drop Destiny and wrap his hands around Fate's skinny, arrogant neck, someone grabbed him by the collar and began to shove him for the door. Graves dug his heels in, of course, but one pair of hands turned into two pairs, then three, and he was out the door despite his struggles. The rain was still pouring outside, and he landed in a sizable puddle of mud.

Graves belted obscenity after obscenity as he got to his feet. A hextech gun wasn't the easiest to keep clean, and if Destiny jammed due to the mud during a League match, well, that would just be embarassing. It was going to take hours to get her back in reliably working condition, and Graves would've just marched right back in there except when he'd gotten to his feet, he found Fate standing in front of the door too, the brim of his hat just barely sticking out from the small overhang.

"What a mess," Fate said, voice almost completely drowned out by the clap of thunder. "Storm's not gonna let up for a while, and I've got a ways to go."

Graves sneered. "You and I both know you can just use that magic of yers to gate yourself home." He wiped Destiny off as well as he could and slung her over his soaked shoulder. "I'm walkin'."

Fate shrugged and stepped out into the rain, most of it landing against his hat. "I'll walk with ya, least 'til we part ways."

Graves grunted and started heading back to the Institute and the small flats provided there. He brushed his wet hair out of his eyes, slicking it back against his head. "Do what you want."

He waited for the telltale sound of boots against the pavement behind him, and wasn't sure whether to be pleased when he heard them.


	2. Chapter 2

Note: WARNING this gets really NSFW near the middle/end!

The bar they had been kicked out of was only about fifteen minutes from the League-provided flats, which were more like personal hotel rooms than actual living spaces. The rain still hadn't lightened up, and Graves was soaked down to his mud-covered boots. Fate had somehow managed to stay mostly dry - Graves attributed it to the magic, though it was probably the hat.

"Get goin'," Graves said, with a jerk of his head. Fate looked after him, eyes such a deep shade of red they were almost the color of wine. Once upon a time, Graves had rubbed the fabric of Twisted Fate's brand-new vest between his fingers and remarked that red looked good on him. Now, he simply scowled and turned towards the building.

"Malcolm," Fate called to him, and Graves looked back just in time to catch a small bag tossed at him. Even through the fabric of the bag, he could feel the familiar shape of Destiny's hextech shells. He looked up, which, though he'd never admit it, was a mistake, because Fate was giving him a small wave then, the smeared gunpowder on his fingers clear in the artificial lighting of the building, reminding him where they were not half an hour ago, how they moved and toyed with the possibility of death.

Heat flashed across his navel, and it was akin to being shot. When the sensation vanished, what replaced it was not unlike blazing fury, but not the kind Graves was entirely familiar with. What he did know, however, was that he didn't want to kill Fate any more. That desire was gone. He didn't want to humiliate him, or ruin his reputation, or subject him to the tortures Priggs had come up with.

Graves stood there and let this rage-that-wasn't-rage fill his veins, and Fate cocked an eyebrow. He looked at his open palm and let out a short, amused breath of air. He reached his hand out, as if to wash it in the rain, and Graves sprung at the opportunity and grabbed his wrist instead, pulling the both of them inside.

The colder air inside the building hit Graves's skin and would've sent a shiver through his body if he wasn't boiling on the inside. They barreled past Miss Sarah Fortune, who looked after them first with confusion, then unbridled glee. Behind him, Graves could hear her laughing. With the way Sarah liked to run her mouth, within a few days the entire League would know that Malcolm Graves had been seen taking Twisted Fate home.

Good thing Graves was too old to care for petty gossip. His priorities might have been all mixed up now that he was bringing Fate back to his flat as opposed to actively trying to kill him, but he'd never been interested in what other people thought about him. He paused at his door only long enough to fish his keys out of his waterlogged pants with one hand, the other still holding tight onto that bony wrist.

"How charming," Fate mused, before Graves keyed the door open and threw him inside.

The small flats the Institute provided weren't really meant to serve as permenant living quarters, but where else was Graves going to go? Still, he'd kept the place fairly sparse and clean, easy to pack up and move away if he ever decided to. A small dresser holding a couple of outfits, a small table with a couple of chairs pushed up to it. The only pan and half of his bowls (two) were stacked in the sink with an old, chipped mug. The clock on the far wall ticked in the relative quiet of the flat, hanging above the disorganized box of tools Graves kept in the corner to tune up Destiny, if she ever needed it.

Fate landed in the room with nothing less graceful than two small hops to keep his balance. He looked around as Graves slammed the door shut, whirled around, and paused. With the same momentum that carried him through the apartment building, he would've grabbed Fate and fucked him right against the front door. But now that Fate was standing here in his flat, staring at him with curious expectation in those red eyes, Graves felt the heat dissipate from his body.

He was playing right into those dexterous hands. He was a Joker in a stacked deck, and Fate was the one shuffling. Graves grit his teeth and marched past where Fate was standing to set Destiny on the worktable. He'd have to clean the mud out before the League match scheduled in two days, but that could wait until tomorrow. Right now he was cold and rain-soaked, and the mud on his clothes was getting tracked on his floor.

"That it, Malcolm? Just wanted me to give me a tour of your place?"

"Shut up," Graves snapped back. He tossed his boots near the door and then added, as an afterthought, "You're drippin' on my floor."

Fate looked down and behind him to the wet tails of his long trenchcoat. He rolled his shoulders out of the sleeves and slung the coat over the back of one of the chairs. The hat had done a remarkable job of keeping the rest of his outfit dry, and it went on the same worktable as Destiny. Graves shrugged off his shirt and poncho in one easy motion, dropping both mud-soaked items in the hamper he kept in his closet. The pants followed shortly, the boxers layered within.

Really, what was the point of modesty around Twisted Fate? He could already take one glance at you and read you inside-out. Graves could almost feel the gaze flickering up his body, pausing at the jagged prison scars. He hadn't aged nearly as well as Fate, and there was the reason why.

"Lookin' good as ever," Fate said, but Graves paid no heed and rummaged through the dresser for a clean pair of boxers.

"You can sleep on the couch," Graves said, the contents of the dresser reminding him that laundry day was a week ago and, frankly, he was shit out of luck.

Something soft draped over Grave's head - his bath towel, grabbed from the bathroom. Fate had the hand towel, wringing his hair into it. A drop or two of rainwater sank into the red vest, darkening the color temporarily.

That vest was in remarkably good condition for how old it was. The night Fate managed to con it out of some stupid Demacian noble, they'd hit one of the bigger jackpots either had seen in their careers. Fate had only been interested in the vest, though, admiring himself in the mirror in his room after the bar downstairs closed. Graves, though he was mostly busy counting their winnings, was more than anything surprised it fit as well as it did. This was, Fate explained, tracing one finger down a gilded seam, what real luck looked like, and how rare it could be.

Graves reached out and touched those darker spots, brushing his fingers over the vest's silky material. Fate paused in drying his hair, red eyes flickering to Graves's face, then down to the fingers. One of the buttons was noticebly newer than the other, and Graves thumbed over that one. As the pad of his thumb passed over the metal, the warm heat began to seep back into his body. Slower this time, and not with the same kind of intensity as before.

"Am I still sleeping on the couch?" Fate asked.

Rather than answering, Graves sat him so that his knees just bent over the edge of the bed and straddled his lap. He undid the buttons and belts on the vest, then the white shirt underneath, exposing a fading array of scars on Twisted Fate's chest. On his sternum was a 12-point star shape, lighter than the rest of the surrounding skin, and Graves remembered it as where Collateral Damage had hit and exploded less than a week ago. He placed his palm flat over the scar, and some of the star's arms poked out from between his fingers.

Graves pushed, and Twisted Fate fell back with a low laugh and a soft flump. He reached up, but Graves caught both of his skinny wrists in one hand and pressed them into the covers above his head before crawling on top of him. There was something comfortingly familiar about feeling Fate's hips pressing against the insides of his thighs. About seeing his ex-partner, older and skinnier, with deep red eyes instead of bright green, but still keeping that same cocky attitude, pressed against the fabric of his sheets. About knowing that he was, like so many times before, being manipulated into something Fate wanted, but going along with it regardless.

With his hands pinned above his head, Fate squirmed as Graves's other hand brushed over the other scars along his chest and abdomen. Some of the scars, like the burn marks where Brand had seared him, were fresh while others, like the jagged lines fanning out from his solar plexus where Talon had thrown those daggers out in an ominous circle, were so faded they were almost indistinguishable. Graves touched every single one, moving downward slowly until his hand hovered over the belt holding up Fate's pants.

The motions paused here, not so long that it seemed like Graves had changed his mind, but long enough for Fate to grow impatient. He rolled his hips up, sliding the belt into Grave's grasp. Graves undid it with one quick motion and pushed the fabric of the pants down to Fate's knees. When he looked back up, Fate was grinning, holding the corner of a condom between his teeth.

"Where the hell did you get that?" Graves frowned, plucking the little square package from Fate's mouth. He didn't recognize the brand.

Fate shrugged as well as he could from his position. "Always good to be prepared," he said, and opened one of the fists held above his head to reveal a small bottle of lubricant resting in his palm.

Graves snorted and let Fate's hands free, lifting his own hips to roll the condom onto Fate's erection. As he was finishing up, he felt lubricant-slicked fingers against his entrance, prodding once or twice before sinking inside of him. Graves jerked a bit, the intrusion more surprising than he would like to admit. He grit his teeth and shifted to rest most of his weight on his knees and hands as those fingers moved inside of him, searching.

Groaning, Graves angled his hips to make that spot easier to find. He felt Fate's long, thin fingers brush against it and took in a sharp breath as electricty raced across his lower stomach. Fate's fingers hit that spot again and the electricty sparked into a blaze.

If he stopped to think about it, Graves could list off about a hundred different reasons this was a poor decision, and about a hundred more ways that it could go wrong. Fate wasn't sorry, for one. Never would be, and even if he was, Graves wouldn't ever be able to forgive him. Fate could be setting him up to ruin his reputation. Or be manipulating him for something else. He could decide that this was a bad idea, or he could get bored, and gate away and leave Graves humiliated and frustrated. Or he could pull that fucking quarter trick again, knowing full-well how fast that would get him kicked out, and ruin it for both of them.

Actually... most of the others, Graves could handle, given enough time. But so help him, if Fate withdrew his fingers and pulled a quarter with them this time (or a string of handkerchiefs or, god forbid, a rabbit), that would snuff all potential for any future agreements.

"Malcolm, you still with me?" Came the low voice underneath him.

"Get on with it," Graves growled, back slightly arched. He felt the pressure of the fingers leave and took that as his cue to rock backwards against the tip of Fate's erection. Fate had one hand on Graves's hip, the other on the base of his cock, holding it steady as Graves sank himself onto it. Graves could feel Fate's fingernails digging into his skin, leaving bright red crescent marks in their wake.

It had been way too long, Graves realized, when he had to stop and take several labored breaths, trying to force his body to relax. At first Fate waited patiently, fingers massaging the tense muscles in Graves's thighs. He tentatively tried to thurst upwards, but Graves's hand immediately went to his throat and pressed down in warning.

"I waited seven years for you to break me outta that hellhole of a prison," Graves growled, "You can wait a few fucking seconds for me to get used t' this again."

Fate's eyes flashed an angry gold for half a second, changing colors so quickly Graves almost thought he was hallucinating. Underneath his palm, Graves could feel the retort thrumming in Fate's throat. Fuck, so he was the one who ended up ruining this. Fate was going to shove him off at any moment and leave, and Graves wouldn't have anyone to blame except his own fool self.

Sure enough, Fate was sitting up, throwing the hand off of his throat. Graves moved to push him back down, but his movements were sloppy and Fate managed to dodge his hands. But instead of breaking contact, Fate grabbed his shoulders and flipped the two of them over with lightning speed. He shouldn't have been able to do that - no way, Graves had probably a hundred pounds on him in pure muscle, which was why he was surprised when he found himself on his back with Fate leering down at him.

"Malcolm," Fate said, thrusting into him with the last syllable of his name. Graves stifled the groan in his throat and tried to buck him off, but Fate had him pinned. "You really think now's the right time to bring that up?"

Snarling, Graves opened his mouth to respond, but before he could Fate rolled his hips into him again and the protest turned into a moan that he couldn't shut his mouth in time to suppress. Fate chuckled, and from somewhere underneath Graves's stomach, the familiar, seething, anger boiled, mixing with his current lust. Before he could fully think through his actions, he pulled his arm back as far as it could go and punched Fate straight in the jaw.

A drop of blood landed on Graves's chest, followed by another, then two more. Fate hardly even paused his movements. He looked down and licked at the split part of his lip before he leaned down and began to lap up the fallen droplets. Every time his tongue flickered over Graves's body, he coordinated it with a thrust, and how fucking hot that was somehow only infuriated Graves more.

He reached with both hands and clawed his way down the exposed part of Fate's chest, leaving bright red trails even though he kept his fingernails relatively short. Fate was panting above him, groaning, but then again Fate was the kind of person who didn't think sex was satisfying unless the next morning he was wishing for a hangover to take his mind off the soreness. Graves hadn't forgotten this - maybe all the goading was even to cajole him to do this - but seeing the bruising already start to form on Fate's jaw, watching the blood begin to bead at certain points along those ten red lines, that was cathartic as hell, and Graves wasn't much inclined to stop.

He began to buck in earnest to Fate's rhythm while grabbing at whatever else he could with his hands. He dug his fingers into long, black hair and pulled, forcing Fate's head back and exposing his neck. Graves set upon that vulnerable place with his teeth, curling his body upwards, tilting his mouth so that he could use his sharp canines. He bit and suckled, leaving a dark path of teeth marks and bruises. When he tasted a metallic tang he pulled back and nearly came right then and there watching the blood touch the fabric of the white shirt underneath the vest and blossom across the collar.

Graves wouldn't say it out loud, but his old partner really did look incredible in red. Out on the Fields of Justice, fights were too chaotic for Graves to really stop and admire his work, and if this was what he was missing out on, he almost regretted it. He let go of that hair, only pulling out two or three long, dark strands between his fingers.

Fate glanced at the hairs and a look of annoyance flit across his expression. He shifted and hooked an arm under one of Graves's legs, lifting it. He thrust against that part his fingers brushed earlier and Graves howled, reaching under the shirt to claw at Fate's side and back with one hand while the other went to jerking himself off.

Usually, Fate was the louder one. Usually, he was the one moaning and panting and begging, and while Graves would never beg he wasn't necessarily above making some noise. And it wasn't like Fate was paticularly silent, either. He was a syllable into Graves's first name before a hand clamped around his neck.

"Don't you... don't you fucking dare," Graves growled, squeezing with that hand and taking a surprising amount of pleasure from how Fate struggled to breathe.

"You used t'-" Fate pulled back, freeing his throat a bit so he could talk easier. "You used t' go crazy when I said your name in bed."

"Yeah," Graves spat back, "Who woulda thought that after gettin' backstabbed by someone, ya wouldn't wanna hear 'em moanin' yer name?"

The angry switch to gold again, but this time the color stayed, and then Fate's movements became rougher, more sporadic. Graves began to dig his fingernails into the stringy muscle on Fate's back, gritting his teeth.

"You sure gotta knack for kickin' up old dirt, Malcolm," Fate drawled out the syllables of his name, purposefully, and Graves made another grab at his neck. Fate dodged out of the way this time, pinning that hand to the bed near his head.

"Old dirt!" Graves bucked, the rage in his stomach blazing. "Ain't 'old dirt' until it's settled, and you ain't dead yet."

Fate's eyes narrowed. He let Graves's hand go and leaned down until their lips were almost, but not quite, touching.

"So kill me, Malcolm Graves." He challenged.

Even all those years ago, before the betrayal and the hatred and revenge, back when they were swindling suckers together and fucking so loud and hard they'd gotten banned from half the inns in Demacia, they'd never really kissed. Maybe a couple of times, because how affectionate Fate happened to be at the time would coincide with how drunk he was, or maybe Graves was feeling particularly romantic one night, but it wasn't common.

When Fate, that close, murmured his last name, their lips brushed and sent lightning racing through Graves's body. It jolted him into action. He grabbed Fate's shoulders with both hands and in one quick motion rolled them off the bed. They hit the hardwood floor, Graves's knees and shins connecting with a loud thunk half a second before Fate's back did. He could see the look of surprise in those bright blue eyes, and perhaps a flash of fear, too?

Good, that was fucking perfect. That's what Graves wanted, for the backstabber underneath him to get a taste of what Prigg's prison had put him through. He resumed the rhythm from before, grinding into Fate's hips, one hand firmly pressing Fate's neck and head to the floor.

"I SHOULD kill ya," He snarled. "I shoulda blasted a hole through yer chest back in that fucking bar."

"Mal -" Fate started, but Graves silenced him with another punch across the face.

"I shoulda held yer head underwater and let ya drown in a fucking rain puddle!" He continued. "I should strangle ya right here and now!" He could feel Fate shaking underneath him. Could feel the muscles of his legs and stomach tighten.

"Don't you fucking dare!" Graves all but yelled again, the coil in his stomach winding so tightly that it was likely to break. "I'll strangle ya right here! I'll - "

He stopped. He stopped because Fate's eyes weren't that foriegn blue, red, or gold. They were, as if stepping into a portal to the past, green and pleading, and Fate was reaching up with a hand, running those gunpowder-smeared fingers down Graves's face.

"Malcolm," He moaned, a small trickle of blood trailing from his lip to his collar. Red met white again. "Please," Fate begged, just barely touching those fingers to his lips, and with that the coil snapped, the tension crested. Graves leaned forward and squeezed his eyes shut and came with a shudder, splashing semen from Fate's stomach up to his chest. He might have moaned, but even if he did it was drowned out by Fate's yelling as he arched upwards with his own orgasm, fingernails digging into Graves's shoulders. Graves grunted, staying kneeling until Fate fell back onto the floor and the room was silent save their heavy panting.

With as little ceremony as possible, Graves rose up off of Fate's softening erection and collapsed on the floor next to him. He'd move to the bed eventually, but right now he was exhausted and sore and still unsure of whether this had been the right decision. On the one hand, he'd slept with the man he'd vowed to kill - on the other hand, it was some pretty mindblowing sex, and if he really wanted to, he could keep his eyes closed and almost pretend it was a decade or so earlier and they were lying on the floor of an inn they'd likely get kicked out of in the morning, their swindled winnings off in a corner.

Graves opened his eyes and Fate was gone. He sat up, suddenly alert and confused and a little angry (or maybe he was hurt, from being abandoned like that yet again; they were hard to tell apart, and were probably the same thing at this point), until he heard the sound of the shower running. Cursing himself for his flood of emotion, Graves reached into the bedside dresser and pulled out a cigar and a lighter, and he was puffing on it still when Fate walked out of the shower about ten minutes later.

"You smoke inside?" Fate asked, voice incredulous, dripping water once again onto the hardwood floor.

"My flat, my rules," Graves responded, making sure to blow the smoke in Fate's direction.  
"Stop drippin', that's how ya get mildew."

Annoyed, the card master waved his hand in front of his face and stalked back in the bathroom for a thicker, drier towel. He came back wrapped in a white beach towel that hadn't been used since Graves came to the League, opened a window into the crisp, after-rain night, and sat down on the edge of the bed to watch Graves smoke. His eyes were blue, contemplative, as if he was trying to think of what, if anything, to say.

Graves ended up breaking the silence, instead. "How much of this did ya plan?

Fate tilted his head and shrugged. "Well, I saw you at the bar and figured, might as well see what kinda mood you were in. After that, I was mostly just flyin' by the seat of my pants."

"Bullshit."

"Sometimes I don't lie, you know."

"Yeah? Well you'll forgive me if I ain't too keen on believing that."

"Believe what you want, Malcolm. Don't stop it from being true."

Graves just grunted in response, putting out his cigar in the ashtray. He got up off the floor and took a good look at the man in front of him. Fate had red lines running from his collarbone to his pelvis. Some of them were still bleeding, but his lip looked a little better. The bite on his neck was definitely still bleeding, seeping into the white beach towel. Sporadic bruises littered his face and neck, particularly along his left jaw. Overall, not a bad night for him.

"Move," Graves said, flicking his wrist in a dismissive hand motion. "I'm tired."

Mischievious, Fate's eyes switched to red again and he gave a small grin. any bigger and he'd split his lip open again. "Am I still sleeping on the couch?"

Graves made a small "tch" sound and lay down on his side, facing away from the question."Sleep where you want," He said. He closed his eyes and, as he felt Fate slide under the covers next to him, made a completely unrelated note to remember to clean Destiny super extra well tomorrow morning.


	3. Chapter 3

Graves woke up before Twisted Fate did, which was unusual. Fate was always the earlier riser, but this morning the Card Master was still sound asleep even as Graves sat up and brushed the covers off his chest. He didn't have as much of a hangover as he expected, which meant that he hadn't drunk as much as he'd hoped, to be waking up next to the man he'd been trying to kill for the last part of his life. A goal that, though he hadn't reached it yet, wasn't quite out of his grasp.

On the contrary, it would be easy to kill Fate now. Graves could think of a number of ways with him curled on his side, back to the room. He could strangle him, wrapping his fingers around that skinny neck so the man couldn't cast his magic. Or he could walk into the kitchen, grab a knife, and gut him, painting the walls thorn red with Fate's blood. Destiny was covered in mud, but it wouldn't take but ten minutes to clean her out to working condition, and that was always an option, too.

Grave chose instead to take a shower. It just seemed like the better decision at the moment. It was still early for him, so he idled in the hot stream, letting the water hit his slightly aching head and neck. Still not hungover enough to justify sleeping with Fate again. He closed his eyes and sighed, pressing the heel of his palm to his temple.

He had every justifiable reason and chance to have killed Fate last night. Hell, he had every justifiable reason and chance to have just walked away too. Instead he'd brought Fate back to his flat at the Institute and fucked him. And he had no clue why. Couldn't blame it on drunken foolhardiness, since he clearly hadn't been that drunk. Couldn't blame Fate for seducing him, either, 'cause that didn't happen. He knew magic well enough to know that there wasn't any influence from that. So he had just his own fool self at fault, and it was too early in the morning for that.

Grumbling, Graves tapped at the knob on the shower before finally twisting it off. Outside the small bathroom, he could hear Fate stirring. Graves waited, considered going back into the shower, but he'd already grabbed his towel and if there was anything worse than sleeping with Twisted Fate, it was hiding from him. He wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out of the bathroom, a blast of steam heralding him.

"Mornin', Sunshine," Twisted Fate greeted him, reaching for his boots. "You're up early."

Graves grunted and pretended to have a hangover, knowing full well that Fate would see straight through him. He looked in the dresser again, was reminded once more that he was shit out of luck, and just reached for a pair of pants that weren't covered in mud. He dropped the towel along the way and sure enough, Graves could feel Fate's eyes flick up again from where he was pulling on his boots. All he saw when he looked over was the wide brim of that hat leaning over the edge of the bed.

"I appreciate you putting me up for the night, Malcolm," Twisted Fate said, standing up with a smile and looping his belt in his pants.

"Yeah," Graves replied. He pulled on a clean shirt and started hunting for a poncho that wasn't covered in mud. Should've just thrown his clothes in the wash last night instead of letting them pile in the hamper, but it was too late for that now.

"You got a match today?"

"Tomorrow."

"Maybe I'll see you on the Field then, muffin."

Graves snorted. Same routine for the past two years, and last night hadn't really changed anything. "Better pray your summoner knows what he's doin', then."

"Don't I always."

Twisted Fate walked past him, his clothes still smelling of sex and alcohol. Graves reached out and grabbed the crook of his arm. Fate's eyes flicked towards Destiny. Under the fabric of the coat, Graves could feel Fate tensing as he held on.

"Need somethin', Malcolm?"

Graves ran through several responses in his mind, but none of them sounded right. He squinted at the bed.

"Malcolm..." Fate attempted to pull away, but Graves held on tighter. Both of them knew that if Fate really wanted to leave, there wasn't anything stopping him.

"Wait," Graves said.

From outside the door came the sound of footfalls and voices. Luxanna and Ezreal, probably headed to an early morning match. Her voice was chipper and excited. His, about ready to pass out on the floor. Graves waited until their voices tapered into the distance before letting go of Fate's arm.

"Get outta here," he said, turning back to his closet.

Even with his back turned, Graves could feel Fate's smile. "See you later then, cowboy."

"You'd better hope not," Graves said, without the bite there usually was. He watched the door shut quietly behind the trailing tails of the trenchcoat before he closed his eyes, rubbing his temple with the heel of his hand. He suddenly felt very, very tired again. No match today, so no obligations. He lay back down on the bed, and somehow managed to fall back asleep despite the muted, lingering scent that Fate had left in his sheets.


End file.
